


Selective Palate

by nirejseki



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Chefs, Alternate Universe - Cold War, Alternate Universe - Dragons, Jewish Character, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-08-24 06:17:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8360644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nirejseki/pseuds/nirejseki
Summary: “My name’s Mick Rory. I’m the guy they brought in to make sure you get fed, you lump of lard,” Mick says. “Now get your face this way and tell me what you like to eat.”
Len twists and turns his lithe body until his long neck and narrow snout are right in Mick’s face. “Assholes from Keystone City are a particular preference.”
(Prompt: dragon!Len the world's pickiest eater and human!Mick the cook specialized in dragon cuisine)





	

**Author's Note:**

> This prompt was originally for a Temeraire fusion, but I'm utterly unfamiliar with it other than "Napoleonic Wars + Dragons". Except all the characters here are very, very American, so somehow it turned into "Cold War + Dragons" instead. Full disclosure: I've spent way too long thinking about the mechanics of how the Cold War would work if dragons were involved as a result of this fic.

“We can’t get him to eat anything,” the guy says anxiously. “He’s just wasting away.”

Mick sighs. He’s heard this refrain a hundred times from a hundred different Riders, all fretting about their precious dragons. You'd think that the massive creatures were made of spun glass, to hear a Rider talk about them. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I can make something he’ll like, don’t you worry, Rider…?”

“Oh, I’m not a Rider,” the guy says. “My name’s Barry Allen. I’m a researcher at STAR Base Facilities; we work with injured or rider-less dragons.”

“I didn’t know there was any rider-less dragons,” Mick says. “What with the war and all. I thought they’d all been pressed into service.”

“You can’t exactly press a dragon into service the way you can a sailor,” Barry says, smiling. “They’re a bit too big for that – and when they don’t want to move, they don’t move!"

Mick has to laugh in agreement on that one.

"No, we’re a treatment center, primarily," Barry continues. "Ideally, a dragon should be in a happy, symbiotic state with a human rider, but it's really not something you can force. There has to be a spark, a mutual spark, and as always, the dragon picks their Rider. Even with everyone being drafted for the war, you can't just order it to happen. And sometimes dragons can have difficulty finding a compatible rider or be too troublesome or be simply mentally unprepared to bond with a human.

“And which one’s our picky eater?”

“All three,” Barry sighs. “He’s a Great White.”

“An _icewurm_?” Mick asks, eyebrows shooting up. “I thought the Whites were all killed off – or working for the other side of the war.”

“Oh, no, he’s American all right,” Barry says. “Through and through. He’s a Great White, not a regular White like the Russians have – they’re an older lineage, roots in North America’s Paleolithic era; they’re even rarer than the Whites but also, uh, bigger.” He sighs again. “Well. In theory, anyway. As mentioned, Leonard’s not really eating, and you know how dragon size can fluctuate to a much greater extent than humans.”

“He’s shed all his outer scales and started losing muscle?” Mick says, frown deepening when Barry nods. “Huh. Most of the time, someone comes to me and says a dragon’s not eating, they mean he’s not eating much or he’s gone off his feed for a few days due to a flu or something. But if he’s shedding scale layers…”

“He’s _really_ not eating,” Barry confirms. 

“Lemme go talk with him,” Mick says. “I’ve fed picky eaters before.” 

“Just don’t take anything Len says personally,” Barry advises. “I’m the closest thing he has to a person he likes, now that Lisa’s gone off and bonded with Cisco, and he’s still pretty stand-offish.”

Mick nods. “Who’s this Lisa person?" he asks. "Someone he wanted as his Rider?”

“He practically raised her,” Barry says, rubbing his eyes. Poor kid's probably not been getting a lot of sleep, if he works at a treatment center that also handles injured dragons. The war churns out plenty of those, and their Riders are probably more insistent with the real vets than they ever are with Mick, who after all only deals with food. “Her dad was an egg smuggler, you see, and Len’s egg turned out to be a live one, hatched right here in Central City, of all non-draconic places. He stuck around as a hatchling to take care of Lisa when he saw her dad was hitting her. We all thought they’d bond one day, even though they kept insisting their relationship is more sibling than Rider-Dragon, but then Cisco showed up – he’s one of our two Blue Shimmers, sonic blast specialists – and he and Lisa just clicked. You know how it is. But Len’s been alone ever since – and now that she’s gone abroad to fight in the war, he’s stopped eating.”

Mick nods knowingly. “Dragons will sometimes eat food they don’t like if there’s a hatchling around they feel they need to make a good example for,” he says. “Probably why he was eating until she left.”

“So you think you can help?”

“I don’t guarantee anything,” Mick says. “But I can try.”

Mick’s only seen the Whites on television before. The Russians send them out in force, the whole lot of them from the icy plains of Siberia or something; no one has any up to date information about them, not since the Iron Curtain went down. The legions of even more massive than usual white-scaled dragons with Soviet-red heraldry, whose fires burn cold instead of hot, are basically the new go-to villain signifier in Hollywood, even if the dragons they use in the films are obviously painted. The Soviets are also incredibly possessive of them, stealing back corpses where they can and equipping their dragons with self-destruct bombs to ensure that the West doesn't get their hands on any of them.

Still, he’s seen the pictures, so he knows to prep himself for something big. 

Mick’s not sure if he should be impressed or horrified when he meets Len. On one hand, Len’s about the size of a regular dragon, which given Barry’s stories of shed scale layers means he’s normally pretty huge. On the other hand, he’s positively skeletal. That wing-to-leg muscle ratio is so off it actually baffles the eye for a minute, because the extremity of draconic weight fluctuations are well known but the human eye just can't handle seeing adult proportions on a frame reduced to that of a teenager. 

Seems pretty slothful, too, the way he’s lolling around listlessly on the ground, face tucked away from the door.

“Len?” Barry calls. 

No answer.

“He might not be in a communicative mood,” Barry says apologetically, twisting his hands together.

“Leave it to me,” Mick says, and then he goes over and kicks the dragon’s scaley little behind solidly with his boot.

Len squawks and twists around.

“You little – who are you?”

The dragon’s voice is lighter than Mick would’ve expected, with a definite Central City drawl to it. More personality than you’d expect from a dragon.

“My name’s Mick Rory. I’m the guy they brought in to make sure you get fed, you lump of lard,” Mick says. “Now get your face this way and tell me what you like to eat.”

Len twists and turns his lithe body until his long neck and narrow snout are right in Mick’s face. “Assholes from Keystone City are a particular preference.”

“Dragons can’t live on human meat,” Mick says dismissively. “We’re bad meat: too many diseases, bad meat-to-fat-to-organ ratio. Not a viable option long-term. Now, what’s your preferred flavor profile?”

“What’s a flavor profile?” Len says suspiciously.

“Right, then. Okay, let’s start with the basics. Sweet, salty, bitter?”

“I have no idea.”

This one’s going to be a doozy.

“What’s your favorite thing that you’ve eaten?”

“Uh,” Len says. “Mac and cheese?”

Mick stares at him. “Mac and cheese,” he says blankly. That’s not dragon food. That doesn’t even have _meat_ in it. “Like, as in, noodles and cheese?”

“Yeah,” Len says. “You know, from a box.”

“From a _box_.”

“Yeah.”

“How much time do you spend eating a day?”

“Three meals a day,” Len says, sounding puzzled.

Mick is developing a headache just doing the proportionate calories-intake-to-necessity conversion of a standard box of mac and cheese to what a dragon really ought to be consuming if they're only eating three times a day. “Even when you came here, you ate mac and cheese?”

“It’s Lisa’s favorite,” Len says sulkily. “And everything they had here was just plain old meat that didn't smell of anything.”

Mick hates government meals. They think roasting meat is enough to tempt a dragon to eat it, and why bother with the spices, and it’s all because they still think of dragons more as over-sized horses with wings than as a sentient species with its own tastes. 

“Okay,” Mick says. “Let’s start at the beginning. I brought some samples. You tell me which ones you like.”

“I’m not hungry,” Len lies.

Mick takes out his samples and cracks open the boxes so the scent can drift out.

“…maybe a bite,” Len concedes. 

Unfortunately, Len’s as stubborn as he was billed to be; he does in fact only take a bite out of each one. Mick studies his face as he nibbles daintily. Salt and sugar both seem quite positive, and he tends to stick to the milder fare – not surprising for someone raised near Central City on _boxed human food_.

Mick nibbles his lip. He has some ideas he thinks Len might like: more flavorful food, but still mild, like stews and roasts and barbeque. But he’ll need to convince Len to try them out first.

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he tells Len.

“Why does that sound like a threat?” Len complains.

“I’m bringing you food tomorrow,” Mick says pleasantly. “And you’re gonna eat it if I have to climb up there and shove it down your throat myself.”

Len grumbles, but the next day, he grudgingly takes a few bites of the nice, big roast ham Mick brings.

Then he spits them out again.

Mick sighs.

The same happens with the baby back ribs the next day.

Mick’s eyes narrow.

A bit of research in the file room turns up some additional information: that Lewis Snart’s wife was of Ethiopian Jewish descent.

Mick shows up the next day with a giant platter of roast chicken instead, slathered in salt and paprika and served on a warm bed of potatoes, sweet potatoes, and onions.

Len eyes it warily.

“You must’ve had chicken before,” Mick says reasonably. 

“It’s usually crunchy on the outside,” Len says. “And it’s in nugget form.”

“Well, this is what chicken actually looks like. Now eat.”

Len takes a bite.

Then another.

A long scaly claw snakes out and wraps around the basket, pulling it in, a wing rising up instinctively to shield the food from any potential observers who might try to steal it. It’s an old draconic habit, from when dragons still hunted and fought over their food with other dragons; it signifies pleasure and possessiveness over a meal.

Mick smirks. _Gotcha_. 

Next, he’ll have to work on building up Len’s tolerance to difference spices and seeing what he prefers so that he can branch out into other dishes – Mick’ll have to make sure Len can eat a few more dishes before leaving the menu suggestions with the local cooks, or else Len’ll die of boredom with just chicken, because the local cooks aren't going to put as much effort into it as Mick does – goddamn government bureaucrats - 

Already making plans, Mick turns on his heel to start heading out, only for a scaly claw to snake out and grab _him_ by the midsection, hauling him into Len’s little ball of dragon as Mick yelps in dismay.

“Where’d you think you’re going?” Len says, crunching the chicken bones with evident delight. Thank god for dragon stomachs, that’s all Mick’s saying. 

“I gotta plan out tomorrow’s menu,” Mick says, crossing his arms. “Unless you wanna eat nothing but chicken from now till doomsday.”

“Nah,” Len says. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

He doesn’t seem inclined to let _go_ of Mick.

“You gonna let me go make it?” Mick asks.

“Maybe.”

“If you don’t let me go find out some more stuff you like, you’ll have a very limited menu once I leave,” Mick points out.

“What do you mean, leave?” Len says with a frown.

“I don’t work for STAR Base Facilities,” Mick points out. “I’m just here on a temp job to get you to not die.”

“You can’t leave,” Len says. “You’re the only one here that isn’t a simpering idiot.”

“Don’t you like, what’s his name, Barry Allen?”

“Sure, I like him. Doesn’t mean he’s not a simpering idiot.”

“Well, like it or not, I don't work here, so I’m gonna leave,” Mick says, rolling his eyes. Dragons sometimes had difficulty understanding the human concept of paying the rent. “Now let me up.”

“No. How’d you avoid the draft, anyhow? You’re able-bodied enough. Don’t tell me you got a college deferment.”

“Medical,” Mick says tightly. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

Len sticks his snout right into Mick’s collarbone. “You don’t smell sick.”

“It’s mental.”

“You don’t smell crazy.”

“I ain’t crazy,” Mick says sharply. He has no interest in going back to the institution they’d put him in as a kid, after his family died. “I’ve got an impulse disorder, that’s all.”

Len’s eyes light up. “Kleptomania?”

“Pyromania,” Mick admits reluctantly, because Len’s clearly not letting go of this.

“Well, isn’t that convenient,” Len purrs. “Given as you work with dragons and all.”

“It’s one of the appeals,” Mick agrees with a sigh. “Nothing in the world like dragonfire.” He would’ve signed up to be a Rider if he could’ve passed the medical exams; but as it is, he’s known since he was a teenager that he couldn’t even pass them enough to serve as an army mess hall cook. You don’t let a pyromaniac anywhere near the front lines, and you certainly don’t give them access to the biggest, baddest weapon yet discovered by mankind. 

The work he does now – dragon nutrition – is a good substitute, though. He likes food, he likes cooking (all those ovens and stoves and no one says a word about him getting into the zone unless the meal burns), and he still gets to work with dragons, even if he doesn’t get a chance to bond with one himself and only gets to see them breathe flame from a distance. 

“I think you’re being wasted, personally,” Len says. “Cooking for any old dragon that asks.”

“It’s an important job,” Mick says mildly, though he’s a little annoyed. He’s heard the spiel before. Being a dragon chef's still not a very respected career given that most people still think of dragons as winged elephant-sized horses with a little extra brainpower. Half the people assume he's only doing it because he can't make it as a human chef. “Getting a dragon who won’t eat to eat’s as important as bandaging them up; it’s why I’m technically classed as a vet, even though all I do is cook. And it helped you, didn’t it?”

“Exactly,” Len says triumphantly, though what he’s getting at Mick’s still not sure. “You should come cook for me.”

“I am.”

“No, I mean _permanently_.”

“I’m not signing up to be your permanent chef,” Mick says, amused despite himself. Dragons and their possessiveness! “You’re not that cute.”

“I’ll trade you,” Len offers.

“The answer’s still no.”

“You haven’t heard my counter-offer.”

“All right,” Mick says. “I’ll humor you. What is it?”

Len smiles, big and broad and toothy. “I’ll take you for a spin or two.”

“A spin?” Mick says with a frown. “Where?”

“On me,” Len clarifies.

“You can’t take me for a spin,” Mick says, confused. “Barry says you’re rider-less; letting someone ride you around for too long might trigger the onset of bonding hormones.”

“I think he’s getting the picture,” Len remarks.

Mick blinks, and realizes. “You can’t be serious,” he exclaims. “I literally just told you I’m a pyro!”

“And I’m an icewurm,” Len says, unruffled. “My flame burns cold, not hot; you'll be able to get your fire-starting jollies out with minimal damage. It’ll be a good balance.”

“No one would permit it! I’m not even draftable, much less eligible for an officer class like a Rider!”

“Dragons pick the riders,” Len says. “S’always been the rule.”

“Even if you did pick me, they’ll bench us forever.”

“Let them try – the first Great White that’s been domesticated in North America for nearly a hundred years? The media’d kill ‘em.”

“And you’re doing this because I gave you some chicken?” Mick says, very nearly speechless.

“No,” Len says. “I’m doing this because you kicked me and called me a lump of lard, and I thought that was hilarious. C’mon, Mick. You can’t say you aren’t a bit tempted.”

“I’m not going to get any nicer,” Mick warns, but he can feel himself yielding already. It’s only everything he’s ever dreamed of, after all. Even if his logical self knows this is a terrible idea. “And I’m not going to stop consulting for other dragons! I got a good job and I _like_ it.”

“As long as you’re mine,” Len says primly, “I’m willing to compromise. Now stay put and let me finish eating, and we can tell Barry the good news.”

Barry thinks it’s great news, actually.

His bosses disagree, and disagree vociferously, too, but in the end, Len’s prediction holds true. No one wants to be the reason the already notoriously sickly Great White finally keels over and dies. Not when there’s a PR stunt just begging to be used: the North American Great White, the massive icewurm of the Paleolithic, towering over the Russian White Dragons in the midst of battle.

The Hollywood people all but beg on their knees for rights to put it into a movie. Several movies.

No one’s saying this’ll be the thing that swings them the war, but it’ll piss off the Russians to no end and anything that distracts them from expanding their Eastern European empire, the better. Mick gets warned a lot about Soviet spies, potential assassination attempts, bribes, threats, blackmail, but the one advantage of having nothing in your life but your career means that there’s not a lot that can be held against you. 

The bits about having to do PR tours and movie shoots as well as the actual war-mongering are a bit more concerning, but either way, it’s not going to matter until Len gets fat enough to be worth showing off anyway.

And that – that, Mick can definitely do.


End file.
